The state of my little brother
by Schuko
Summary: Maybe Mycroft isn't sure either about his baby brother's alleged death. I think Sherlock did not stick to the plan.


Disclaimer: don't own any of the characters

Lyrics from Asaf Avidan: Reckoning Song

Has not been beta-read, sorry.

Summary:

Maybe Mycroft isn't sure either about his baby brother's alleged death.

I think Sherlock did not stick to the plan.

_No more tears, my heart is dry_

_I don't laugh and I don't cry_

_I don't think about you all the time_

_But when I do – I wonder why_

"Thank you Anthea, just let me know if there is news." Mycroft said, slowly turning around on his heels, facing out, through the glass, passed the twilight now hanging over the sky of London. His clenched hands hidden in his pockets, shoulders straight, his stance rigged and devout of any emotion.

_You have to go out of my door_

_And leave just like you did before_

_I know I said that I was sure_

_But rich men can't imagine poor.  
_

Anthea closed the door behind her, letting a small sigh escape her lip and slightly slumping her shoulders. She knew her boss to be extremely caring about his brother. Not, as he once quipped, `constantly`, at least not since Dr Watson came into play, but certain a very large portion of his precious time.

She never had withheld information, as was useless with any of the Holmes brothers, but tonight, she knew she did not have the heart to tell about the fall and the blood, the mashed skull and broken bones of the youngest Holmes brother.

When she reported the news about the jump, she felt as if all the warmth left the room. Her boss, The Ice Man, honoured his name and only looked at her with hard, cold eyes. Not the reaction she was expecting, but then, Anthea thought now, what wás she expecting? He asked for all the details; time, place, companions, witnesses, first responders, police leads…And in the end, the bodily and the collateral damage.

Anthea knew it was a shield, but it was too cold. Her own heart refused to accept the cold questions. She was at a loss, Mycroft only slightly smirking, disappointed that she could not bereft herself of any emotion. He did not gently nudge her to go on. Only raised an eyebrow at her hesitance. "Well, Anthea?"

She looked at him, swallowing thickly, feeling the floor fall from beneath her feat. She took the photographs, the blow ups from the crime scene and handed them to Mycroft. She felt a fool, so small, utterly and deeply a failure. She would write her resignation. She could not be there for her boss at the most important moment in his live.

His baby brother´s, his ónly brother´s, death.

She turned around and head for the door, eyes prickling.

_One day baby, we'll be old_

_Oh baby, we'll be old_

_And think of all the stories that we could have told_

Mycroft knew, felt he was to stern, too cold in his reaction towards Anthea, towards himself. He stood at the window for an unaccounted number of minutes after witnessing the...the bloody pictures, the horrible pictures of his little brother.

His shoulders slumped.

He leaned onto the cool glass with his head, finding support on the sill. His denial slowly dissipating.

He breathed heavily, trying to control the raging anger that started boiling from inside. Why could Sherlock not stick to the plan!

Damn. His. Brother!

He took the nearest object within reach and swirled it across the room. It was a a thick, heavy, cristal paperweight and landed on the opposite wall with such venom and power, it broke into thousands of pieces with such a big blow, that he was sure that it could be heard on the other side of the street. The office glass was trembling in it´s rebate.

_Little me and little you_

_Kept doing all the things they do_

_They never really think it through_

_Like I can never think you're true_

His door opened milliseconds after the paperweight hitting the wall, Anthea rushing in, right-hand on her hip, with on her heels Jason from his personal protection detail, handgun drawn.

_Here I go again – the blame_

_The guilt, the pain, the hurt, the shame_

_The founding fathers of our plane_

_That's stuck in heavy clouds of rain.  
_

They all stared at the small twinkling little pieces of cristal, covering a good portion of the floor, whilst Jason slowly holstered his gun.

"Are you alright, sir?" Jason asked as he slowly was walking up to his master, unsure what the proper protocol was now.

Mycroft slowly put his left hand up as in a stopping gesture. He let the question linger in the air, staring at the cristal pieces.

"Sir?" Anthea´s gaze intensified on the completely blank expression of her boss.

He blinked and shifted his look to Anthea and then to Jason, as if only noticing at that instant they were in the same room. He shifted his eyes back towards the victim of his outburst and nodded.

"Yes. Fine. I´m fine." Mycroft swallowed and then frowned at his own words thick with withheld grief.

Sighting, shaking his head and nose pinched, he briefly closed his eyes.

"Get someone to clean up this mess will you," he said while picking up his coat and umbrella and striving towards the door. He needed some time to think on his own.

Anthea and Jason gave each other an understanding look.

They let their boss grief on his own.

But they would not leave him alone.

_One day baby, we'll be old_

_Oh baby, we'll be old_

_And think of all the stories that we could have told._


End file.
